Read The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) for Free Online Page B

Eight

I Shall Enlighten You
    “ P erson to see you, mum.” Finch’s face had squeezed in on itself in a most dreadful fashion. Rather as if he had sucked a lemon, which could either mean he was impressed by the visitor’s status, or
quite
the opposite.
    Emma lowered the chill, damp handkerchief over her eyes. Her study was very dimly lit, and the leather sopha she had collapsed upon was a trifle too hard. Still, it was not the floor, and if furniture witnessed her
déshabillé
, or behaving not quite as a lady should, it would not speak of the matter.
    Nor would Finch, and she took care to answer kindly, “I am not receiving, Finch. Thank you.” The shelves of leather spines–each book useful in some fashion, if only for a single line–frowned down upon her, and the bankedcoal fire in the grate gave a welcome warmth without the glare of open flame.
    Finch cleared his throat. Delicately.
    I see
. “A rather fine carriage, following us from the graveyard,” she murmured. “Yes. Did they, perchance, present a card?”
    “No mum.”
    Of course not.
“Mikal?”
    “Is aware, mum.”
    I certainly hope he is
. “And what do you make of the carriage, Mr Finch?” For though her butler appeared a gaunt dusty nonentity, he most certainly was not thick-headed.
Or
easy to ruffle.
    His lemon-sucking face intensified, his collar pressing papery neck-flesh. The indenture collar would grant him a longer lease aboveground, but he was ageing. “Not so much the carriage as the guards about it. All of Brooke Street’s under their eye, mum.”
    “Indeed.” They were all aging. Severine Noyon sometimes limped, old injuries stiffening her thickened body. Isobel and Catherine, once bonny young maids, were past the first flush of youth now, and would perhaps marry if she settled a dowry upon them. Bridget and Alice as well. She should attend to that, and soon.
    A Prime’s life was long, and enough of a burden without a Philosopher’s Stone taken from a dead lover’s wrack and ruin to weigh upon one. She had intended to make Clare proof against time, and also to assuage her damnable conscience in the matter.
    And yet.
    Finch brought her back to the matter at hand. “The watchers arrived just as Cook and the girls did.”
    In other words, they did not wish to be remarked by a sorceress or a Shield, knowing one or both of us would sense a watch upon the house as we returned. I should feel insulted.
An involuntary sigh worked its way past her lips. “The servants?”
    “All accounted for, mum. The carriage is a fine bit of work, but without design. Clockhorses worth a pretty penny. Black as… well, black, mum.”
    Black as death.
“How very interesting.” She crushed the scrap of lace and cambric between her fingers and her sweating brow. “Very well, send word I shall receive
one
person, and one only.”
    “Shall I bring tea?”
    A cuppa would do me a world of good
. “No. Rum. And
vitae
.”
    “Yesmum.” He sounded relieved, even though he would know the very thought of violet-scented
vitae
would unsettle his employer’s stomach most roundly.
    “Thank you, Finch.” If the carriage held what she suspected, the drink would come in handy.
    For
both
of them.
    “Yesmum,” he repeated, and shuffled out. The set of his thin shoulders was profoundly relieved, no doubt eased by this intimation that his mistress knew exactly what she was about. As usual, her own steadiness provoked calm and assurance in her servants.
    Emma allowed herself one more deep, pained sigh.
    Of course Clare was… upset. The wonder was that he had not bethought himself to ask such questions before. For a logic machine trapped in distracting flesh, he certainly seemed a bit… well, naïve.
    She rose, slowly, her hands accomplishing the familiar motions of setting her dress to rights. She lowered the veil–a tear-stained face and dishevelled curls was not how she wished to face whatever manner of unpleasantness this was likely to be.
    Blinking